Femme Fatale
by RavenSwan24
Summary: "I love my husband very much, Detective Malfoy," she says as she leans into me, her warm breath caressing my ear. "I would do anything for him." A Muggle film noir spin on a Dramione one-shot.


**I've decided to take a Muggle film-noir spin on this Dramione one-shot. You could say I've taken a bit more... creative liberties with Hermione's character.**

 **All characters are the sole intellectual property of J. K. Rowling. The premise and story are mine. Rated (MA+) for explicit scenes.**

 **Femme Fatale**

 **by RavenSwan24**

The glass hits the desk with a chink as the rain patters half-heartedly against the grimy windows behind me. I sit staring pensively into the shrouded darkness, the only light coming through the screen of my door from the single flickering bulb in the corridor beyond; I've defaulted on my last rent payments and the landlord has cut the electricity. Should be a matter of time before I get the boot too – may as well indulge in all the luxury my rank shamble downtown office has to offer while I still can. I pour myself another drink and put out my cigarette against my already over-flowing ashtray, ever the reliable testament to my relative state of unemployment.

Once upon a time, I was the big guy, the hot shot in this town. There used to be a time when the name Detective Malfoy would send shudders down the spines of the gunnies and shivers up the dames. But one screw-up, one media frenzy, and it's all gone. Just like that. Now to them, I'm just some washed up, has-been that the world wouldn't blink an eye to even if he washed up on the banks of the L.A. river.

But I've got a wild card – something that could bring me back on the up and up. I thumb the yellowed envelope in my hand delicately and slip out its contents – photographic evidence of that boozehound banker Weasley with his hands in the honeypot. I wouldn't have thought him capable of such ingenuity – look of him in the papers you'd think his mother dropped him on his head as a child. But clearly the bum must have some measure of brains to have orchestrated a one-man embezzlement of funds from the National Bank for almost two years now.

It wasn't the first time suspicion had been raised in his direction, but it was always a whiff, never enough to go on, barely enough to describe. Any weak leads would always culminate in dead ends, cold trails. Whatever game he was playing, he played his cards well.

But now, with these photographs I'd personally taken during one of my long stakeouts, I finally catch my big break. I've only just returned to my office, though I intend to send this over to Chief Potter's first thing tomorrow – and watch the smile wiped off that smug bastard's face.

A bolt of lightning streaks across the sky followed by a boom of thunder as the rain becomes heavier. Suddenly, my office door swings open with a bang and there, framed against the backlight of the corridor, is a figure in a trenchcoat and hat. The figure steps in, and I recognise who it is immediately. Somehow, I am not surprised.

It was never supposed to be this easy.

I open the desk drawer on my right and slip the envelope in surreptitiously. The woman shrugs off her trenchcoat and hat, hanging them on the clothes stand beside my door. Then she turns towards me.

"Detective Malfoy."

"Miss Granger," I say, inclining my head in mock acknowledgement. She never did like being known by her husband's name on the streets.

The lady in question is wearing elbow-length white gloves and a tight, satin red dress. Strapless. Her figure is accentuated in its full form before me before she swings the door shut behind her. Click of the lock. She steps forward into the minimal light cast by the street lamps through my blinds. I get a better look at her dark, glossy brown hair and crimson red lips.

"I see you were expecting me," she says as she covers the short distance up to my desk, the sound of her heels clicking even over the din of the rain. She stops just shy of my desk, looming over me. There is a chair there, but she does not sit down, and not because I haven't extended an invitation.

"Surprised it took you this long, to be honest." I narrowed my eyes at her. I had heard whiffs about Miss Granger too, but like her husband's embezzling, they were always just that – whiffs. She walked high society like a Class A debutante. Had them wrapped around her little finger. Ever the perfect hostess, there wasn't a soul alive uptown who didn't think highly of that 'respectable Mrs Hermione Weasley'.

Though right now, she looked far from respectable.

"It has come to my attention, Detective—she let the word roll off her tongue like a soft caress—that you have acquired something. Something of interest to me, or more specifically, my husband."

I tsk and say, "What now, has the big dog uptown sent his little bitch after me?"

She doesn't balk, not even a twitch. _Real_ high society women aren't like that.

Instead, her lips curl up in a devious little smirk.

"No, Detective, this little… _bitch_ … came all by herself."

She reaches a gloved hand for the clasp of her handbag, and pulls out a small white envelope.

"Now, let's cut to the chase, Detective. I know how hard it is for a man like you."

"You don't know the half of it, kid."

"I try," she pouted. "And I know how hard it is to earn a living wage from the _noble_ work you do. Now just think, Detective. If you turned over that little envelope you're hiding in your desk to the police tomorrow – what then? You think they're going to remunerate you? That they'll restore your good name? You think they _want_ to restore your good name?"

"Hope is all we've got sometimes, Miss Granger," I said through gritted teeth. She had struck a nerve, but I wouldn't show it. It was true – I knew the guys down at the station had it in for me. Never liked me since I went rogue and outed their benefactors in that Ponzi scheme several years back.

"But just think Detective, how much more you stand to gain if you _didn't_ release those photographs? Why, this—she pushed the envelope across the table towards me, her painted nails reflecting off the dim light—this is only just the start for you if you can show where your true loyalties lie."

I flick a glance up at her which I hope is an appropriate mix of incredulity and disgust at her attempt to buy my integrity. Then a brief vision of the sole slice of baloney and a half-jar of pickles gone off in my fridge flashes before me.

It wouldn't hurt I suppose… to see. I open the envelope, and pull out a crisp cheque. The only betrayal of my reaction is a briefly raised eyebrow. Then I sink back into the same impassive look.

"No bite, M'am," I say. "You're going to have to try harder than that." Two could play at this game.

"Harder, you say?" she says as she begins circling my desk, leaning against the edge. "Help a girl out, Detective. I'm already trying my best."

"Why, pray tell, should you even be helping your husband, Miss Granger?" I interject. "He's an embezzler. He belongs in the slammer."

"My husband may not be the most intelligent of men, Detective, but he is faithful and loyal like a dog. He has his uses… and besides…"

Now she was certainly coming closer to me, and began lowering herself onto my lap, comfortable as you please. "I love my husband very much, Detective Malfoy," she says as she fiddles idly with my tie, her eyes flickering up at me. A less wizened man would think those were the eyes of a demure, diffident girl looking up at him, not a scheming broad about to cheat me at my own game. "I would do anything for him," she whispers in my ear.

The scent of her perfume fills my nostrils as the heat from her lips warm my ear. I feel her tight, supple breasts pressing against me. I know what she is trying to do, and yet I make no attempt to stop it.

"I'm sure there are limits to what your husband would consider… generous on your behalf, Miss Granger," I say. I force myself to meet her eyes directly in order to avoid the rush of blood I'm feeling now. Big mistake. Her sultry, black-rimmed hazel eyes only intensify the sensation.

The corner of her lip quirks up in the slightest smirk.

"Like I said, he's not the most intelligent of men. What he doesn't know won't hurt him..." She fixes her gaze on me as she leans in slowly, her lips close enough for me to taste…

Then she stands up abruptly.

"But clearly Detective, you are a man of honour," she says, smoothing down her red dress, the outline of my erection now embarrassingly clear to both of us. "I respect your decision. One can only say that I tried." She lets out a small dramatic sigh, slips the envelope with the cheque back into her bag, and turns towards the door.

I am out of my seat before she has even slipped on her coat, and the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them:

"Miss Granger!"

It would have sickened me an hour ago to hear the desperation in my voice, but right now other thoughts were going through my mind which rendered my previous self-claimed 'integrity' an increasingly vague concept.

"Perhaps I was being too hasty?" I say, straightening my tie. "I'm a reasonable man. I am open to negotiation."

She smiles the devil's smile again. I know from here on out that I have become mere putty in her hands.

"You make a wise choice, Detective," she said, making her way back to my desk. "I will however, need proof of your willingness to play fair." She stretches out a waiting hand, one eyebrow raised.

Grudgingly, I pull open my drawer and hand her the envelope. She opens it, checks it, and smiles.

"This is the _only_ copy?", she said, sounding brisk, almost business like.

"You have my word as a gentleman." And an idiot who didn't have time to get copies.

"A gentleman, you say? Strange, I thought they were extinct."

"Not extinct, Madam. Only endangered."

"Well then, I'm afraid there won't be any more left in this room after tonight."

She places the envelope back on the desk and approaches me.

"Now… where were we, Detective?"

If I was ready before this, my cock now threatened to burst through my pants as she kneeled down before me. I wasn't kidding anyone – I knew I was a gonner the moment she walked through that door.

Reaching for my pants, she makes quick work of my belt and fly. I wonder briefly how in God's name a husband like hers could acquire a broad like her, but decide at once to drive that out of my mind. Ronald Weasley was the last thing I needed right now. His wife, on the other hand…

Pulling down my pants and boxer shorts in one quick motion, I am suddenly vulnerable before her even though she is the one kneeling before me. Shooting a quick, almost arrogant glance at me, she bends down.

It is pure bliss to feel my sore ache finally ministered to. The warm caverns of her mouth are a welcome contrast to the cold air around me, and I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out and losing my dignity altogether.

It is not long before I realise she is not pleasuring me. No, she is torturing me. She laves her languid tongue up and down my length, slowly, tantalisingly, treating me to some brief, electrifying licks across the head – but always stopping short of granting me full satisfaction. Rather, she brings me to the brink of ecstasy, and takes me back down again and again. She may be the one prostrate before me, but the power balance is far from my favour.

And I intend to remedy that.

I get up, causing her to disengage her lips.

"Is there something wrong, Detective?" the little vixen has the audacity to ask me _sweetly_ as she drags a thumb across her lower lip where traces of my pre-cum has smeared.

"Bend over," I say coldly, jerking my head towards the desk.

Not missing a beat, she gets up slowly. She does not take her eyes off me as she moves to the short edge of the desk, bending over slowly, her dainty hands gripping the panelled wood. She is still miraculously covered in that ridiculous strapless dress masquerading as clothing. I intend to remedy that too.

Positioning myself behind her, I yank her skirt up.

The little minx – she wasn't even wearing underwear. She knew this would happen all along. She knew she would get her way.

And somehow, I didn't give a damn.

I elicit a moan as I thrust my fingers up her cunt, smirking to find she is already more than ready to receive me. Positioning my still erect, still throbbing cock at her entrance, I bend down for only a moment to whisper in her ear.

"Just so you know, Miss Granger," I murmur, "I intend to get my money's worth."

Then I thrust straight into her without warning. The only indication of her surprise is the little gasp she releases, but she composes herself well. The feel of her warm, wet cunt around my cock is like heaven on earth, if heaven was the new name for hell – because that was where all of us were headed after tonight.

I pull my cock out to the very tip – it is slick and dripping with her juices. Then I thrust straight back in, quickly and mercilessly. I can hear her breathing begin to quicken. She enjoys being taken like this, even if she won't admit it.

To punish her for her little insubordination earlier, I treat her to the same process. I thrust my cock in to the very tip, then pull out agonisingly slowly. Agonising for both of us, to be frank. But I want her to feel the same longing she built up in me. I want her to pay for it.

Then I begin increasing the pace, the urgency. All that can be heard now is the sound of flesh slapping against flesh, the sound of our combined panting, and the lash of the rain against the windowpanes.

In a fit of passion I reach over and yank her dress down, exposing at last those delicious breasts she had been so unwise to tempt me with before. Grabbing a handful I knead and massage it, pinching the pert, erect nipple I find until she yelps.

I find myself near completion, but I refuse to let this woman go until I have had her to the fullest extent. Like I said – I intended to get my money's worth.

I pull out, and order her to flip around. The papers and clutter on my desk get shoved aside unceremoniously, and I dimly register the sound of my ashtray shattering against the ground, strewing cigarette butts everywhere. She perches her tight little ass on the edge of my desk, her bare breasts now exposed and standing at attention, the tight fabric beneath them propping them up like a delectable feast.

With my right hand, I push her slowly, almost lovingly, back onto the desk, her body sprawled before me.

"Look at me," I say as I hover above her, my cock slick against her entrance. "I want to remember your face when I bring you to true ecstasy. Because let's be clear darling, I'm the only man who ever will."

Her lips are parted and her eyes are heavy with lust, but even then I can see the spark of a challenge in her eyes.

I push myself into her once again, but this time take slow, steady measured paces. Then I bend over and languidly lick her nipples. She arches her back and exposes her neck, inviting further exploration. I trail my tongue lavishly around her skin as I keep up that slow, hypnotic rhythm, making sure to rub firmly and deliberately against her clit with my groin every time I do so.

She's good, but she's not that good at hiding how she feels. No woman is.

My hand reaches down and I find her clit. I give the tiny nub a gentle flick, just to observe the effect. I am not disappointed. I rub her clit slowly, patiently, making sure to make full use of the wetness I find down there.

Whatever my faults, I am a man who knows a woman's body intimately. And I didn't get into this career if I didn't know her mind either.

I listen to her pants and moans, adjusting the pressure and motion accordingly, patiently. As soon as I can tell she is ready for it, I quicken the pace and franticness of my movements. Her body is beginning to tense up – I can see it in her expression. The cool, collected façade is falling away to reveal the lascivious, lustful creature underneath it.

I continue relentlessly now, and do not stop my ministrations for even a second. Suddenly, I feel her body seize up beneath me, and she lets out a stifled scream drowned out by the raging storm outside. But I am merciless – I plunge my cock right into her and ride her even as she rides out _her_ orgasm, every sensitive nerve in her aflame. This Malfoy has been generous for too long.

Within just a few short, over-due thrusts burgeoned on by the violent contractions I feel around my cock, I spill my seed into her, relishing in the confidence that I have marked this woman in a way no other man has.

I grip the table for support, my body casting a shadow over hers. We stay like that for several minutes, breathing heavily, our eyes never leaving each other. We are simultaneously greeted with the bittersweet reality that we have both met our match, yet a match that had no future.

At last, I pull myself out from her. Despite the fact my cock is spent, it still protests leaving her warm caverns. She sits up and pulls her dress back up, reassuming that cool, cold exterior almost instantaneously. I reach for my pants and pull them on, then collapse back into my chair.

Smoothing out her dress, she pulls a compact mirror out of her bag and checks her reflection. Then, almost deliberately, she bends down to pick up the envelope that has fallen to the ground, giving me one final glimpse of that bare, naked pussy.

Slipping the evidence into her bag, she heads for the door.

"It's been a pleasure doing business with you, Detective," she says. She pauses, then turns her head coyly in my direction. "Shame my husband isn't alive to appreciate it."

I begin to get up in response to these words but she pulls out a small handgun.

"Ah-ah, Detective. You already got your end of the bargain. I don't suggest you push your luck."

I lower myself back down again, glaring at her. She smirks, and disappears around the door. I do not follow. Further fraternisation with a woman like that can only result in a man's ruin. Her husband, it seems, was testament enough.

It then takes me several minutes to realise she left with not one, but two envelopes tonight.

Three days later, the L.A. Examiner releases a story about a banker found dead in his two-story bungalow. Cause of death: suicide by gunshot to the head. An informative and strategically placed suicide note eloquently reveals the details leading up to his death, including a convenient confession to his wife's murder, who was only the most 'trusting woman in the world… and whose only sin had been in marrying a scoundrel'. Upon discovering his duplicity she had attempted to report him to the police, only for him to intervene on this permanently. Embroiled in guilt, he had taken his own life shortly after.

His wife's body? Nowhere to be found. The money? Still missing.

Police are now searching the usual dumpsites for Miss Hermione Granger's body, though I know they will not find it.

There was no use in looking for a woman who had no intention of being found.


End file.
